


Shorts and Sides and Spin-Offs

by HowardR



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chaptered, Drabble Collection, I Tried, I'm Bad At Tagging, Maybe Romance, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance?, Shorts, Side Story, Without a main story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:21:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 5,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25013098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowardR/pseuds/HowardR
Summary: What do you do when you have so many Harry Potter fic ideas, but not enough time or motivation to actually write them?
Relationships: Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	1. Orphan!Harry

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings will be displayed at the beginning of each chapter, if there are any. All credit to J.K. Rowling, of course. Anyone reading is free to make one or more of these ideas into a full fic. As a matter of fact, I encourage it.

The oddest thing about Harry Potter was that nobody could tell how old he was.

He had appeared at the orphanage one day, like magic. Just... showed up. No parents had come to drop him off, he had been too old to have been left on the doorstep, and he had had no signs of abuse, emotional or physical. Honestly, he probably looked younger than he was.

That was the problem.

Harry carried himself like an adult.

All the kids hated him. Not just on sight, they all had developed their own reasons, but they all hated him regardless. Really, it had started just because they were all dreadfully bored and Harry made for a fun puzzle.

But Harry didn't like being a puzzle. Understandable, if you were an adult, but the kids took offense to this.

Harry simply didn't respond. He didn't rise to the taunts. He walked by them like a ghost, wearing those loose coats of his, and ignored everything.

The kids began to mess with his stuff. Harry fixed it.

The kids began to frame him for crimes. Harry slipped out of it, or - more rarely - simply accepted his punishment.

Then, the kids began to berate him verbally. About all kinds of things. How thin he was, his paleness, how little he spoke, how calm he was, his parents. Nothing seemed able to get a rise out of the boy, no matter what they did.

Until Harry got a pet snake.

Children are not cruel by nature. They are, however, short-sighted by nature. And with such a small field of vision and such a large cloud of ego, it is understandable they would be blinded by their self-love.

They all told themselves, and each other, that it was a great idea to go after Harry's _snake_ instead of Harry. Snakes are weird and gross anyway - really, Harry would be better off with it dead. He had barely had it a week, it's not like he could've grown attached to it. They could never get a rise out of him - maybe this would finally do it.

They congratulated each other as they sneaked into his room, filled with a warm sense of self-importance.

They killed the snake.

The next morning, Harry walked into the dorm they shared with his eyes on fire. The green irises licked and danced, tasting his pupils and wriggling in the bonds of his cochlea, and promised _pain._

_"Who. Was it?"_

His voice was deadly as sin.

But the kids, drunk on victory, simply taunted him. It _was_ four-to-one, after all, it wasn't like Harry could _do_ anything.

And then Harry Potter, the ageless boy, began to float.

The taunts tapered off into nothingness.

His eyes lit with an otherworldly glow. Flames crawled on his fingertips.

Sound.

When they checked, the next day, Harry Potter, the ageless boy, had vanished from his quarters. He had vanished altogether, in fact.

The boys who had killed his snake had permanent burns on their forearms, which said _Killer._

Nobody would ever adopt them after that, of course. What parent would adopt a child with such a mark branded on them?

And the tales whispered of how the ageless boy had done it persisted for years.


	2. Summaries, 1

All Harry Potter had ever wanted was a family.

All Hermione Granger had ever wanted was a friend.

Neither of them had wanted a lover.

So why couldn't Harry stop staring at her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very few of these will have end notes, but this one does - because I feel I need to mention that some of these will be full prologues or even first chapters, while some of them - like this one - will just be meant to be the summary of a story.


	3. Lights

His fingers tensed.

The porch light fizzed. Crackled. Bugs buzzed around it, swarming it in a nauseating cloud of crawling specks.

The night was dark. The lights shined.

He could see his bone sticking up from his wrist, with all the pressure he was forcing into his fingers.

Everything was dreadfully silent.

He stared at the streetlamp, harsh white emanating from it.

_Go out._

He knew it wasn't enough.

He had felt it, before. The rush of fire. The blankness. The floating sensation, like he was helium in a balloon.

And this feeling wasn't enough.

_I want it to go out._

...No.

No, he didn't. He _felt_ the lie.

He wanted to be able to snap his fingers and _have_ it go out.

Not for it to go out.

He stared at the light, and his will began to unravel.

_I want it to go out._

It was weak. Growing weaker.

He was failing.

His fingers began to loose.

And he gripped the steel thread in his stomach.

The blood in his veins turned to slush, icy and horrible.

It burned.

He gripped harder.

His fingers tensed once more.

_I want it to go out._

He felt it.

Like a tide, rising, growing. Casting a shadow upon his mind, blotting out the sun of his thoughts.

The desire.

Everything else, finally, wiped away.

He saw nothing but the streetlamp.

He didn't think. He didn't feel. He didn't know.

He simply _wanted._

He didn't want to be able to do anything. He didn't want for the snap of his fingers to make the streetlamp go out. He didn't _want_ to want it.

He simply _wanted it._

Everything else was gone, but his _want._

_GO. OUT._

His fingers snapped. A noise as sharp as a gunshot.

The light didn't even go out. It was like... like the space _around_ the light folded in on itself. Like the fabric of reality hiccuped.

And the light was black and dead as a burnt corpse.

The night was silent.

(In which Harry thinks he can do anything by snapping his fingers, and is scarily close to being right.)


	4. Chapter 4

Nobody knew how it happened.

When Snape came back to continue with that _damned_ Potter's occlumency lesson, the boy had vanished. Entirely.

Nobody could ever find him.

But, in another time, a boy with incredibly dark black hair and a lightning bolt scar nobody recognizes falls from the ceiling in the middle of the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam, unknowingly preventing the worst memory Snape ever had and saving a whole host of people he had never known.

All he had done was look in a pensieve, for god's sake!


	5. Room of Requirements

Harry found the hallway in question and paced in front of the blank patch of wall three times, thinking hard.

_I want to be alone with myself to think._

_I want to be alone with myself to think._

_I want to be alone with myself to think._

When the door appears and he swings it open triumphantly, he's greeted with the sight of a boy with dark brown hair, amber eyes and sun-kissed skin laying on a heap on the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

When Harry wakes up, it's to this odd out-of-body feeling. Like he's a balloon, tied down by a weight.

He groaned, hand cradling his head. The light pulsed, and his skull throbbed.

He glanced down.

And, sitting below him, was his corpse.


	7. Chapter 7

It was almost fascinating, how his philosophy made a neat little infinite knot.

Harry didn't matter. That was where it started. When he was struck with the idea that he might die, his stomach did not turn over. A chill did not drip down his spine, when he truly comprehended that, inevitably, he would someday go cold and never be able to think or feel again. He did not reject the thought. Truly, when it came down to it - at least, for that short moment when he thought only of himself and not his friends - it did not matter.

But he couldn't imagine any of his friends dying. Couldn't imagine Hermione's warm brown eyes, hazy with a film of incomprehension. Could not imagine Sirius, that sparkling smile finally dimming beyond the cold, impassable veil. Could not imagine Neville, his most loyal friend, his truest brother, with limp hands and a weak spine.

He couldn't imagine his friends dead.

His friends _did_ matter where he did not.

And his friends _would_ care, if he died.

His life was not intrinsically valuable. But it was extrinsically valuable. It was valuable, because his friends valued it - not because it was important in and of itself.

It made such a neat, tight knot, his little ball of self-loathing.

And thus, nobody even knew he had self worth issues for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine this being a slow-burn romance, but it doesn't really matter who with. I love this fic. Just getting an idea and putting it on paper... maybe writing it later, maybe not...
> 
> So much fun.


	8. Chapter 8

Note to self: Write a Wrong-Boy-Who-Lived story at some point.


	9. SerialMurderer!Harry

The man in the seat grinned, crossing his hands behind his head as if he didn't have a handgun in his palm.

"Ah, detective." He said, a feral grin touching his lips. His salt-and-pepper hair glinted in the afternoon light, and one of his feet tapped solemnly against the other, as if ticking down seconds until his demise. "I was wondering when you would arrive."

"Parseltongue." You whispered, glaring at the murderer. The man in question grinned wider, teeth glinting.

"I am he."

(In which magic doesn't exist, and Harry is an eccentric murderer who's completely lost his respect for humanity after living with the Dursleys so long.)


	10. Job Postings

“Well, I’m  _ so _ glad you asked, dearest Ms. Granger!”

The man swept onto one knee and kissed her hand, peering up at her with those piercing emerald-green eyes.

“I’m Harry Potter.”

She found herself completely unable to respond as the mystery man stared up at her with glittering eyes, completely taken aback.

“I… I’m not sure I follow.”

The man grinned, standing straight again and tugging at the collar of his jacket.

“No need to, Hermione.” He said, smile easy and relaxed. “I’ll explain it in rather simple terms. You see, I am from three dozen years in the future, by which time you’ve gone completely insane and caused the deaths of millions. My job is to assassinate you, but I’ve decided that - considering you haven’t done anything immoral - I’ll just change the course of history by affecting your life directly.”

She stared.

“...That was a joke. I’m here about the job posting?”

(In which magic doesn’t exist, and Harry was raised by his godfather Sirius and is now in need of a touch of cash - and so, applies to be a librarian.)


	11. Chapter 11

The long, black fingers wrapped gingerly around the cloth of the hood. It made a sound like the crunching of leaves - Harry wasn't sure if it was from the hood, or the hand.

It slowly pulled back. Harry tensed, terrified and yet oddly fascinated.

...And revealed a pale man with high cheekbones.

"You mind if I sit here?" He smiled a wide, inhuman smile. "Everywhere else is full."

* * *

"Harry!"

He woke up, shivering and shaking and dreadfully confused.

(In which a mysterious figure visits Harry in his sleep and claims himself to be death. When Harry asks why the man is visiting _him_ of all people, he simply says - 'well, you're my master no matter what time frame you're in, and the 22 year old version of you said that you would really need a friend this year.')


	12. Chapter 12

The master's long, spindly fingers tucked a hair behind her ear, and she shivered - a deep kind of coldness seeping into her bones that wouldn't leave for weeks.

He pulled back and smiled softly. It was a sad kind of smile, but it had an edge that was too distant to be truly kind.

He reached his hands up and waved his fingers like conductor's batons, and the air shivered and coalesced like string into a long object with a bundle at the end. The thing seemed to come into focus like a camera lens was finding it, and it became a long, thin piece of wood.

"Here, Hermione Granger." He said quietly, handing her the object. "You ask for a legacy - and you will have one."

(In which Hermione Granger accidentally summons the Master of Death at age six and completely erases an entire course of history. When she arrives at Hogwarts, she makes quick friend with a black-haired boy with broken glasses and wide eyes, the shade of which is oddly familiar.)


	13. Chapter 13

Harry glanced up from the potions textbook in his lap (it was really fascinating - like cooler, magic cooking) when the door slid open.

In the doorway, stood two girls. One of them had short-cut light brown hair and a cheery light in her eyes, and the other had irises that glimmered like steel and long, pale hands that seemed perfect for playing piano.

"Oh. Uh, hi." The short-haired girl said, smile falling away for a moment - though the cheerful glint in her eyes stayed. "Er - do you mind if we sit with you? Everywhere else is full..."

Harry blinked at them, slightly confused-

_(Who would want to sit with a freak like him, after all.)_

-but nodded. The short-haired girl grinned happily and collapsed into the bench across from him, and the other girl followed silently and sat next to her, sending him an unreadable look.

"I'm Hannah." The short-haired girl chirped. "This is Susan. Who're you?"

(In which Harry is friends with two Hufflepuffs and probably in a relationship with one.)


	14. Chapter 14

"Can I... could I send something, instead? Something to my counterpart - a letter, maybe?"

The man considered his request for a moment, abyssal eyes swirling.

"One word."

* * *

Harry Potter, age eleven, wakes up with the word 'Slytherin' tattooed on his wrist and wonders what the hell that means.


	15. Chapter 15

Harry’s normal sitting place was the lamppost.

It was rather easy to get to, actually, which was a bit disconcerting when he really thought about it. The people at Number 8 had a big, green dumpster that he hopped up on quite easily, though it smelled like something was dying inside and made a rattling noise like nothing else. From there, he could hop onto a low-hanging part of the roof, waltz along it until he could get to a higher part, and from there it was just a hop, skip, and literal jump onto the pole in question.

He liked sitting on the pole because it was very high up, and people didn’t notice him. He looked down on the street with so much ease and felt like a falcon, or maybe a particularly resourceful snake that was sunning itself, lazily content.

He liked Privet Drive.

It was an odd thing to think, he knew, because he hated Number 4. That was, technically speaking, the place he lived - though he went there so little now that it hardly even really counted. He slept where he could - on street corners and in alleys. He found the secluded little spots nobody thought to look in.

In the rare case that he couldn’t, though, a neighbor would help him.

And that was why he really liked Privet Drive.

Harry, once, had been thought of as Dudley. Nobody really talked to him, so nobody had realized just how wrong they were. In hindsight, it was quite hilarious, really.

Petunia had went about telling everyone what a horrible little beast her nephew was and what a little angel her son was. Problem? She hadn’t thought to mention what they looked like - who could possibly confuse Harry for Dudley, after all - and so, everyone had assumed that the little boy with wide green eyes and a heart of gold was Dudley Dursley, and the town bully was Harry Potter.

When it had all come to a head and everyone realized their mistake, the town instantly shunned Petunia Dursley and her husband.

He had run away, and everyone in town loved him. The restaurants gave him free food whenever he asked - though he tried not to, he didn’t want to impose. People would let him sleep in their house - but no, he didn’t want the bed, the couch was really more than enough Ms. Edgecomb, she hardly had to put herself through so much trouble for someone so useless.

And he was a great listener, too, and a great conversationalist when he wanted to be. Everyone on Privet Drive talked about the great little Harry Potter, who had so many smart thoughts in that head of his but never boasted about it. So humble, so nice, and he was such a good listener, too. Such a handsome young man, when he had a decent shower - but he never wanted to use theirs, said he hardly wanted to cause them so much expense.

So kind, and so humble. Such a perfect child.

The town darling.

The time he had saved a little girl from Dudley’s rampage had spread quickly, too, and said girl had developed a quick crush on him. Everyone in town thought this was absolutely adorable - all the more so because Harry was so oblivious, just his normal, heart-of-gold self. Kind, trusting, just a little naive, even though he had been through so much.

Harry, with those beautiful green eyes of his.

No  _ wonder _ half the daughters of the town had a crush on him - but nobody ever tried to warn them off Harry, even though he was the heartthrob of every girl, and heartthrobs rarely end up being any good.

But Harry was just so  _ nice. _ He was a bit of a mischief-maker, too, but he never once refused a request from any of the little girls and boys to help him out on his little schemes. And they were always harmless, light spirited things - making an army of snowmen in someone’s yard, charging upon the house, or drawing a massive, public game of hopscotch in the center of the town. At the end of these, it was rare to find him without a small crowd of five, six and seven year olds, all drunk on ecstasy and success. It occupied their time with something other then video games, too, which was always a plus in the eyes of the town’s mothers.

And Harry began, slowly, to weave the fabric of magic into the town.

“Hey… Florence?”

The tiny, six-year-old blonde in question - his most faithful protege - glanced up at him with warm brown eyes.

“Yeah, Harry?”

“Can I tell you a secret? You can’t tell anyone else, okay?”

Florence, more than eager to gain Harry’s trust (and also more than a little curious) nodded quickly, eyes wide.

“Of course!”

Harry leaned in, and Florence leaned in with him, trying not to be caught up in the thrill of Harry being so close.

_ “...I’m magic.” _

She blinked at him, not getting it.

“Huh?”

“I’m magic, Florence.” Harry said, an eager grin on his face. “I can do magic - here, look!”

Harry reached forward and snapped his fingers - and a tiny, blue flame sparked in his hand, glittering in the afternoon air. She gasped, staring at the living spark.

_ “...Wow!” _ She breathed, unable to take he eyes away from the flame. “That’s…”

_ Amazing. _

It was amazing.

“Can you do anything else?” She asked, tone eager and bubbling like a rabbit. She sat up and gave him an excited, pleading glance, and he laughed softly.

“Well, I’m best with fire, but…”

He leaned forward and gently blew a breath over his hand, like he was blowing her a kiss. Halfway through, the breath frosted in the air, and it hit her in a blast of cold winter air - even though it was dead summer, and she was hot and slightly sticky with sweat after the day’s activities.

“...You’re  _ magic.” _ She whispered finally. “Like -  _ actually _ magic.”

“I bet you are too, Florence.” He said with a smile, ruffling her hair. She blushed and shook her head, bangs flopping back and forth.

“Nuh-uh! There’s no way  _ I’m _ magic, Harry.” She said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Only  _ you _ can be magic.”

Of course only Harry could be magic. After all - it was  _ Harry. _

And Harry was the greatest.

“How come?” He said, lounging in the grass like a snake sunning itself. “I bet  _ everyone _ can do magic, Florence - you probably just don’t know it yet!”

She simply shook her head resolutely again.

“Okay - give it a shot, then.” He said, sitting up and leaning towards her, gathering up one of her hands. She tried to ignore the way heat rose to her cheeks, prickly and uncomfortable, and how her stomach began to twist itself into knots as Harry brought her hand up.

“Come on - try to do what I just did. Just focus really,  _ really _ hard, okay?”

“I…” She said, intending to deny - but Harry sent her a pleading glance, and she melted.

She leaned forward and gingerly blew over her hand, staring with just a bit of eagerness.

The breath hit Harry’s nose, and he wrinkled it.

“Your breath smells like orange juice.” He said, and she giggled.

“See?” She said a moment later, voice only a tad bit disappointed. “No magic.”

“Oh, come on - you just weren’t trying hard enough! Here, try again.”

Harry gathered her hand up again. She sighed slightly, but leaned forward and gave it another shot.

Harry sneakily waved his fingers intricately below them, and the breath fogged in the air.

She gasped.

“See?” He said happily, ruffling her hair again. “Magic. I told you!”

“I… I can do magic?”

“You can do magic, Florence.” Harry said, leaning back again.

“I can do magic!” She cheered, hopping up and twirling. Harry laughed, and she grinned helplessly at him.

She knew, at that moment, that she was helplessly in love with Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A more fleshed-out one. Yay. I considered continuing this and actually making it a full fic, but I have no idea where I would've gone with it, so instead I'm leaving it to the greasy mitts of the people.


	16. Chapter 16

"...Hey, Sirius? Mate?"

"Yeah, Ed- Geralt?" He said, taking another sip from the bottle of bourbon. He was lucky to have such a wonderful buddy - among the Azkaban staff, no less.

"...You... you really _are_ innocent, aren't you?"

"That's what I've been sayin', Geralt." He sighed, hanging his head.

"That... that just ain't right, mate."

"The world ain't right, Geralt."

There was a long pause.

"...I could help you get out."

* * *

In the Prophet, on the third to last page, their's a small note mentioning the death of Sirius Black in Azkaban Prison. Harry doesn't even glance at it, and hands the paper back to Percy with a simple 'thanks'.

A week later, he gets a pet dog.


	17. Chapter 17

"H-Harry saved me."

The whole family stared at Dudley Dursley, who had just unknowingly gutted the course of history with three words. Destiny stared over the edge of her domain, completely shocked that _Dudley Dursley_ of all people had just managed to slip under her radar and ruin everything.

She screamed bloody murder as her tapestry came undone.

Harry had been right all along. Destiny totally _was_ a bitch.


	18. Chapter 18

Harry felt it rolling, cresting like a wave inside him - a foreign kind of intoxicating warmth, bubbling and gleeful.

He coaxed it, ever-so-gently, into the veins of Dan Granger.

When he opened his eyes, the steady beeping sound of the man's pulse had begun again.

(In which Harry and Hermione become magical healers after Harry cures Hermione's father of cancer by just putting some magic into him, and they have to go on the run from Magical Law Enforcement, helping everyone they can along the way and becoming local legends - almost folktales.

This was inspired by a Reddit prompt.)


	19. Chapter 19

Harry Potter, abused and neglected. Harry Potter, runaway. Harry Potter, wizard.

Harry Potter, under the delusion that he'll be expelled from Hogwarts for lifting Aunt Marge into the sky.

He realizes that he can't get access to his Gringotts vault, unaware that the goblins would make him another key with a simple blood test. How would he know? He may as well be muggleborn.

He sits on his seat in the Knight Bus and fiddles with the frayed edge of his sleeve - picking at it absentmindedly.

He hasn't a stable source of income or nourishment.

...He'll need a job.

"Hey," he says quietly - causing Stan Shunpike to glance up. "Could I get a job here, by any chance?"

(In which Harry doesn't return to Hogwarts for a while - at least a few months. He learns about the breakout of Sirius Black through the papers, learns spare bits of magic here and there from Ern and Stan, and gathers quite a bit of wizarding world knowledge from the conga line of runaways, purebloods and creatures that all need low-profile nighttime transport.)


	20. Chapter 20

Soulmates are… weird.

This is a sentiment not many really want to address, in the world our protagonists find themselves in. That soulmates, really, are just plain bizarre. That they don’t really make a ton of sense, that they aren’t necessarily about love at all, and that they’re just… odd.

Most people never find their soulmate. A soulmate could be anyone, anywhere. A soulmate, as far as people can tell, is simply someone who you fit - cleanly and perfectly. Who makes you feel like you belong. Whose personality slots with yours like two perfect puzzle pieces.

So you could simply not have a soulmate. That’s not exactly  _ common, _ but it isn’t rare either. It’s about as likely that your soulmate is dead by the time you’re born, or vice versa. And even if you  _ do _ somehow luck out and get a soulmate born within 100 years of your birth, it’s very likely that they’ll be across the world from you, or even just far away  _ enough  _ that you’ll never meet them. Meeting your soulmate is  _ incredibly _ rare - and thus, most people don’t even check if someone they’ve met is their soulmate, because it’s damn near impossible.

Occasionally, the fates align and someone does meet their soulmate. This is most common with siblings - two people born of the same mother and father have a decent chance of being soulmates. This is something that said siblings usually brag about to everyone they meet.

But to meet someone meant to be your  _ romantic _ soulmate?

Good luck, kid.

But Harry Potter was born to two romantic soulmates.

Soulmates are, oddly enough, found to be genetic. If one of your parents has a sibling bond, it’s likely that two siblings born to that parent will have a sibling bond. If one of your parents has a romantic bond, it’s likely you’ll be born with one too - though, again, most people with romantic bonds never find their soulmate. Nobody has ever been able to figure out  _ why _ it would be genetic. After all, assuming that soulmates aren’t just  _ random signs _ on your body, there’s no reason that having a special bond of a certain type would be passed down. And yet, it is - and nobody wants to think that soulmates are really just two random people with the same sign.

A soulmate sign is a random symbol somewhere on your body. If someone else has the same symbol on the same body part, they’re your soulmate.

Soulmate marks are coloured depending on whether it’s a romantic or platonic bond. Platonic soulmate bonds are blue. Familial bonds are green.

And romantic bonds are red.

Harry Potter is born with a red lightning bolt on his forehead and thinks about it… almost never.

Daphne Greengrass, on the other hand, thinks about the lightning bolt on her forehead  _ constantly. _

She wonders if her soulmate is even alive. She wonders where he might be buried, if he isn’t. She looks up her soulmate symbol and finds information on it - apparently nobody has been born with a lightning bolt on their forehead. At least, not anybody that’s been catalogued.

She finds sites claiming they know what different symbols might mean. According to research that’s been done, some signs might mean things about certain bonds, in the same way the colours mean something.

A question mark, for instance, seems to possibly be linked to academic bonds. For instance, if two researchers work really well together. That means they usually end up being blue bonds.

A circle means that two people are really similar. It shows up most with green bonds.

But weather symbols usually, apparently, mean that the people in the bond are very different. This is apparently also common in sibling bonds, though it show up quite a bit in romantic bonds.

She can’t find anything on lightning bolts in particular, but that’s still enough to spur her imagination.

She imagines her soulmate a lot. Draws what he might look like. Thinks about how he might act.

She tries to imagine someone that’s nothing like her, and yet, she would still like.

Someone warm, maybe. Open. Trusting. Because she’s cold and steely. Though, of course, deep down, she’s a romantic - that doesn’t really occur to her, though.

It also doesn’t occur to her that her polar opposite would have no interest in soulmates.

Harry Potter doesn’t think about his mark a lot. When people ask to see his soulmate mark - either because they’re close friends, and said friend is curious, or because he’s very heavily desired by many a woman who want to worm their way past his discaring, aloof mask by finding they’re his soulmate - he easily shows it. Nobody else has a mark on their forehead. A few others have weather symbols - suns, or clouds, or raindrops - but nobody has a lightning bolt.

He usually assumes his soulmate is dead. He doesn’t really care one way or another. He finds the whole thing a little ridiculous, honestly.

Daphne sometimes wonders if her soulmate could be a girl. Of course, her polar opposite would be a boy, but just because they’re different doesn’t mean they have to be  _ opposite. _ She decides, eventually, that they’re probably a guy - but she doesn’t mind if it’s a girl.

She hopes to find her soulmate someday. Hopefully someday soon.

She draws them with every hair colour. Every race. She draws them warm, and trusting, with open arms and big smiles. Sometimes, she draws them by fireplaces, or in museums. She likes to think they’re intellectual - she can’t imagine fitting with someone dumb.

Harry is intellectual. He doesn’t care enough to hide it, and doesn’t care enough to flaunt it.

She draws them with fidgets. With ticks. With little tells, and feeling eyes.

He has eyes like steel. People tell him that his glare could freeze magma - when he cares enough to glare.

She imagines him never getting in a fight. She imagines him socially awkward, always behind a book - but so polite and kind to people who care enough to talk to him.

He gets in a fight the third day of tenth grade. He sees red when they insult his mom - dead that year, from cancer. He’s tough, despite being skin and bones. He has a good long reach.

He sees red - and, when he throws the first punch, he doesn’t imagine it busting their nose and knocking out a few teeth.

He imagines his fist going  _ all the way through their fucking head _ and coming out the other side, splattered with flesh and stains.

It doesn’t, but, with how his hand explodes with pain, he thinks it might have been a close call. Still, the burst of pain is nothing compared to the burst of satisfaction when he sees them on the ground, curled up and moaning in agony.

Their nose is never the same again.

He gets expelled.

She imagines him with a college degree. A P.H.D. She imagine him maybe being a professor at some big college, with warm brown leather jackets that smell like flowers.

He smells like smoke. Like sawdust and copper. Like sap.

She imagines him with wide, watery blue eyes, deep enough to fall into.

He has the most piercing green eyes anyone has ever seen. They look like daggers in the right light, glinting like steel.

One day, someone takes the time to ask him what he thinks of his soulmate.

He says, in that quiet yet firm voice of his,

“I don’t.”

(What happens someone who doesn’t like soulmate AUs writes a soulmate AU? This. This is what happens.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another longer one. I wanted to actually write this story, too, but I realized quickly that I probably wouldn't have the motivation to finish it, so... in the compilation it goes.


End file.
